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Jenny & the Jaws of Life

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03/365
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A LOT HAS HAPPENED TODAY, considering that I didn’t wake up until one this afternoon.

Alright, it’s not my fault I slept in as late as I did. I stared at this computer screen until six and didn’t fall asleep until eight. My sleep schedule is so out of whack, I am slowly becoming convinced that I am part robot, part bat, part crazy semi-insomniac chai-inhaling hyena. Or something.

After a pizza party with my good ol’ softball team this afternoon, I had a bit of time to kill and wound up at the Goodwill. This second-hand store has appropriately been dubbed “The Rich Poor Store” by thrifting friends and I because of their sickly overpriced apparel and household items. I don’t expect a pair of pants with conspicuous stains to come for free; then again, they shouldn’t be $6, either. Not that I was considering purchasing something with a questionable spot on it, but you get the point.

Today I was delighted to come across a slightly retro and somewhat nostalgic collection of cassette tapes. Among them: Madonna, Whitney Houston, TLC, Paula Abdul, Boyz II Men, even my good brother Yanni that used to ring through the Christen house in my younger days. I feel remorse for cassette tapes, because much like their second-cousin the VHS, they are near obsolete. No one sees a cassette and thinks, “OY! I gotta have that for my Walkman!” No. You know what cassettes are good for? Paperweights, art projects, space-wasting, and dust-collecting. They suck as bookmarks. They don’t even taste good on a sandwich.

It makes me really sad to see these things, you know? It’s not like they had any clue Steve Jobs and Dee VeeDee were going to come along and make their lives miserable. I mean, really. You don’t see me stealing wheelchairs from the nursing home. Same difference! These things were brought into the world to make life more bearable. They were awesome in 1990. They can’t help it that they suck!

What does one do in this scenario, seeing a helpless heap of audiocassettes? Keep the dream alive. Paula Abdul was in my hands, and I “Straight Up” just about bought her. Then I noticed something a little farther down on the rack, a little ditty titled “The Joshua Tree” by a small Irish group named something like “U2.” I could recall listening to this soundtrack a hundred times, more notably falling asleep to it’s smooth melodies on a car ride to the cities.

Thoughts upon the siting:
a) “HEY BONO HEY!”
2) “I think I have a tape player in my car.”
iii) “How much am I willing to pay for this?”
6) “This is totally going against everything my new iPod stands for.”

Alas, an album with three hits and a place on Rolling Stones’ Greatest list has no home at the Goodwill. It’s like seeing Prince hanging out at a cesspit. What the heck? You have no idea how it happened, you just know it isn’t right.

I gladly slapped down $0.54 for the cassette, to a cashier who nodded her head in agreement of my purchase. Upon retreating to my vehicle I was quickly soothed by the blissful chords of In God’s Country and Where the Streets Have No Name.

In other excitement: A wonderful Christmas present from my sister, who has a God-given talent of wonderful gift-giving. Among the goods were this t-shirt (to wear if life is getting me down), this collection of short stories (praised by David Sedaris), and this awesome, awesome book (by David Sedaris’s quirky sister!) A gift so wonderful that is made me feel twice as bad for getting her a pair of shoes that she already had for Christmas. Yikes! Thanks, Kace — !

So, today’s awesome:
0. Pizza Part-ay
1. U2 cassette
ii. Hospitality Under the Influence
c. The Jaws of Life
4. Loving Life shirt
9. Epic coffee outing with one M. Field (Holla)!
and 10. Seventy-four days until European extravaganza! Eeeeyay!

That’s all for tonight —

xo
jc

Good New Year and a Happy Morning!

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This is the list of my 2008 New Years’ Resolutions.

• Green = actual achievement. 
• Blue = semi-achievement
• Red = failed achievements (In other words, these transfer directly to 2009’s resolutions)

1. Be on time more; fashionably late is becoming considerably overrated.
2. Call people back. Oh, and call people.
3. Be more of the person I envision myself being.
4. Write more. Discover new words. Apply them.
5. Wear my hair wild. Care less.
6. Paint my nails more.
7. Try a banana at least once.
8. WATCH. MORE. MOVIES. [Sorry, but I’m tired of feeling really lame every time someone asks me, “Have you seen [insert sweet movie title here],” and before they even finish the inquiry, I am already responding “No.”]
9. Learn to cook. 
10. Bring cease to my over-packing habit (my biggest downfall as a traveler).
11. Step outside my comfort zone, e.g. talk to boys — excuse me, men.
12. Give country music a chance. (That was a joke. However, for the record: Garth Brooks is an exception).
13. Devise a new way to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
14. Develop my “seafood” taste buds. Proceed to take a liking to shrimp.
15. Visit another continent
16. And the bottom of the ocean
17. And the moon
18. Try not to get arrested so much [this one might prove to be difficult].
19. Rediscover the meaning of life. Write it down this time.
20. Learn to play the banjo, or at least make it look convincing that I know what I’m doing.
21. Get in touch with my Eureeka’s Castle and Rainbow Brite roots.
22. Work out. In pearls.
23. Understand football. Pick a team. Go crazy.
24. Support lemonade stands. Guzzle down that 25 cent glass of warm, watery sugar with love.
25. Be ultra thrifty. Spend less, conserve more. 
26. Wear colorful tights. Because they’re ridiculous, and I can.
27. Convince someone — anyone — that I’m older than fifteen.
28. Master every “Easy” song on RockBand. 
29. Do my laundry before it develops appendages and contacts social services for negligence. 
30. Floss — constantly.
31. Go green!
32. Learn to be awesome, without actually having to be awesome.
33. Find a dance partner, one who is not afraid to get a little wild.
34. Convince someone to quit smoking.
35. Dress up. All of the time, without any reason. It confuses people.
36. Simplify. Simplify. Simplify.
37. Become a little less nocturnal, a little more normal.
38. Quit parking in the fire lane. It’s a pricey space.
39. Save whales.
40. And rainforests
41. And pop tabs for the Ronald McDonald House.
42. Let those that I admire, know that I admire them. 
43. Send more snail mail (with hopes that I will receive more : ) )
44. Learn to give great massages. Woo people with my great massages. 
45. Remain soda-free! (But dangit if I don’t miss Diet Coke like hell!)
46. Fit into my prom dress as well as I used to. Just to say I can.
47. Touch an ocean. 
48. Rekindle a friendship. 
49. Feel no shame for who I am.
50. Never. Look. Back.


Whoa. I’ve got a lot of work to do.

Five Years

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This is my grandpa. He’s young and he’s brilliant, he’s a family man, he’s funny.
This is my grandpa! He’s energetic and outgoing, he’s skillful, he’s stunning.
This — this is my grandpa! He’s witty and brave, he’s respectable, he’s loving.
My Grandpa Ed is my role model and influence. Lou Gehrig’s took him from the world five years ago today.
This man means so, so much to me!
In memory of E.C. Leonard, and all of his wonderful ways —
29 May 35 / 27 Dec 03

The Imperial March of the Eve of Christmas

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(Note: For heightened suspense, read this while listening to the Imperial March.)
IT’S CHRISTMAS EVE AND I’M HOLED UP IN MY ROOM avoiding my father, who will inevitably approach me with cash and a needy plea to buy my mother’s Christmas gift. It happens every year like clockwork — the afternoon of the Eve, Dan’s Doom will play as my father corners me in some fateful cranny, followed by the heavy breathing, the glances over his shoulders, the slow, painful whispers, [breathing] “Here…go… find…your mom…something,” [more breathing] and concluded with the transfer of a cash wad from patriarch to his last hope: me.
My mother gave birth to me nearly 21 years ago, and I’ve been frolicking through life with her ever since. But not one of my 21 years have I spent being married to her, had children with her, been her Romeo or claimed the role of minivan commander in chief. I merely came from her womb, a situation that lends me no special mastery over 27+ years of matrimony — just…really curly hair and short stature.
(There is a sudden pause, and my father walks into my room, loudly snacking on a handful of Christmas cookies. A small bead of sweat lingers near my brow, as I fear the inevitable.)

“I got…some…stuff…I need you to…wrap.”
(He pulls items from several bags, displaying the bevy of goods before me. He drops his Christmas cookie on the floor, and the dog runs for it.)

“SHOOT.”
The inevitable has been overcome, I can come out of hiding now!
Merry Christmas Eve, All!

Hot Diggity on a Cold Day — It’s Allll Over!

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AT 4 o’ CLOCK THIS AFTERNOON I turned in my last final, wished my favorite professor a wonderful break, then went and sold a book back for a disheartening $10. 

I never thought I’d say this so soon, but I’m bored. It hasn’t even been eight hours since my semester has come to an official conclusion and I’m already pulling my hair out! Why, after I am finally granted this godsend of free time, have I resorted to COMPLAINING about it?! 
My idle hands just don’t know what to do. I spent the semester canvassing the parking lot, back and forth to the art center to work on photos and design, night after night. Each evening before getting a little shut-eye, I’d mentally run down the list of things I had to do. Now that list is practically empty and I am looking for things to add to it. Make Christmas cards? Make more hot tea? Make my bed? I’m running out of things to make here! 
I’m “stuck” here until Sunday, and have compiled a short checklist: Clean the microwave; determine what foul smell is lurking in coffee machine, then eradicate said smell; walk the dog — any dog, just find a dog to walk; purchase a shovel to throw in my trunk in the event of future storms that bury my car; make my bed, unmake my bed, then make it again; recycle a semester of paperwork; find perfect Christmas gift for Mom & Dad, then justify why I shouldn’t keep it for myself; stare into the abyss; watch National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation…again; unclog sink; and finally, bask in the glory that I have successfully completed my 5th semester of school.
Whew. I’m off to bed. Big day tomorrow filled with nothing at all!

It Doesn’t Show Signs of Stopping (The Stranded Edition)

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A SHITTON OF SNOW has bombarded our surroundings, leaving my apartment mates and I in a slight state of stranding. 

Do I mind? No. Work called me at 10:46 a.m. to tell me, “We’re closed down, enjoy your day.” Did I mind? No. I went back to sleep until two. Today is awesome. I don’t have to shower (though I’m not sure I would have regardless), and I have a valid reason to wear sweatpants. As far as I’m concerned, I can sit here and sip on my Celestial Cranberry Apple tea all the live long day. I’m not even going to make my bed, because I’m just getting back in it in two hours anyway. And homework? Ha. Homework. I might start that at 10.
While this synopsis seems utterly desirable, I should mention a few drawbacks to being grounded:

• We are on our last roll of toilet paper. Let’s hope this passes before we have to move on to dinner napkins, or worse, paper bags.
• I am currently eating the last existing chocolate in our apartment. Ooop, it’s gone. 
• My vehicle is buried in two feet of snow. That’s the problem — it looks like two feet from my window, but I’m almost certain it’s five.
• Why didn’t I think to stock up on Oreos for this event? WHY?
• There is a week-old box seafood medley leftovers and two pumpkin bars from Thanksgiving in the refrigerator. At the rate that we are consuming food, it might be our only hope for survival in two days. Dear Jesus.
In any case, I’m here. In my sweatpants. Greasy and grounded, absolutely loving it.
All Oreo donations accepted — I may even be willing to take reduced fat Oreos if the need becomes that dire. I’m in apartment 210. Slip them under the door, I’m too disheveled to open it. Thanks a million! You will be greatly rewarded with the surplus of maple syrup that takes up a third of my cupboard.
Love.
jc

Cathy.

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Cathy’s not going to let us down today. She stands before an assemblage of sinks, prepared for the night’s worth of leftovers that will pass over her hands, a stream of dishes and utensils bound to devolve from one to another and eventually into the clutches of her machine. It’s another soggy evening in her world of tedious method, back and forth, dirty to clean—exactly like yesterday, and just like tomorrow.

Her age is an enigma, but I’d venture she’s something like forty. Years of work have added a decade or so to Cathy’s appearance, to a face homespun and sowed with crinkles. She stands on supple limbs, breasts wet from the heat and spray of her dish kingdom. “Ha’woh, Jen!” she’d say, in a voice brought on by crooked teeth and an idle tongue. Her tangle of brown hair is segueing to gray; it’s a confusing cut in a curious style. “Ha’ah yew taday?!”

Cathy is interesting to me, because I’ve seen her leave work and kiss a woman in the rain. I’ve seen her with her children, I’ve seen her drunk, I’ve seen her happy and subdued. Her epilepsy has left her in underwear, panicked and frenzied. She’s the personality of a wisecrack and the efficiency of an appliance. The plates! The plates’ah reh’day! Bow’als, Scott! Ah’ve gatcha some bow’als! Silvahweh! Her mind finds a rare stray from her dishes, save an interval of prancing on dripping floors proclaiming, “Let’s dance! Let’s DAH’NCE!” She’s happy to exist in this place of tranquil, organized chaos, a place that is grateful for her existence.

“What do you want for Christmas, Cathy?” I asked her toward the end of a shift one night in mid-December.

She told me a lot of people had been asking her that, and that she didn’t know what her kids would get her, but the one year they gave her The Bride of Chucky. I laughed. I wasn’t certain if this was something she’d wanted or not.

“What kind of sweets do you like…like, candy?” I asked. I paused and glanced at her teeth, not certain that they could sustain such treats. Before I could withdraw my inquiry, she professed her love for chocolate-covered cherries.

“Chahclat-cahvahed cheh’ies. Ya know those? Like a cheh’ie, cahvahed in chahclat?” she moved her hands to motion the making of a chocolate covered cherry, with whirling gestures to indicate the chocolate encasement. 

“Yes. I know. I love those, too.”

I felt the sudden duty to buy her cherries for Christmas, and decided I’d pick her up a box of Queen Anne’s. After all, she washes every single plate, and cup, and fork, and she’s been in love with both genders, and even kissed a woman in the pouring rain. I saw it.

“Ah’ya closin’ tanight, Jen?” she’d say, looking for a ‘yes.’

“You know it.”

Cathy rammed another load through the machine as flecks of water collected on her glasses. She flashed me a gummy smile.

Cathy is intehwesting ta me, because ah wondah how anay’wan who wah’sis dehshes couhd lauve life sow mauch…

Ah jaust daun’t knaw.